The Way Cigarettes Waste Away Like Life
by Mina1914
Summary: With a lack of desire to live, Arthur willingly damages his mind and his body. It was routine for him.


**Warnings: **Implied self-harm, bulimia, overdosing, depression, and RusEng

**A/N: **Wrote this a while ago. I love to torture Arthur, okay. But yeah just a short little depressing drabble. Enjoy..?

* * *

There are questions that are frequently asked by humans.

Who created this wicked, beautiful world? The rolling hills, the ominous oceans, the graceful animals? Why? When did humans turn into such egocentric, heartless _things_? How can we fix it?

There may be no answers to the majority of these constantly wondered questions, but Arthur may know the solution for it all.

Stop asking them.

* * *

**January, 31****st**** , at a dock in Southern England**

The repetitive slapping of liquid against wood brought a dull feeling into his core. It was much like a vinyl skipping on the record player. Staring deeply into the abyss of creation, the last hope in his mind flickered off, as if the wick of a candle was spent. Altogether, he stopped bothering to focus on his sight, his touch, his hearing.

The slapping turned to a blur, and the cigarette burning between his fingers fell into the endless water. He didn't care that now his shoes were getting soaked in the bitter cold of the lake, his toes going stiff. His eyes seemed to grow blank and dark like the black water itself, staring without looking into the rippling liquid of creation.

That night, after three hours of sitting there, he had summoned the last spark of desire to live to pull himself up, lifting his soaking legs out of the water, and began up the dock. It seemed like the road was endless and winding as he dragged himself back to his shoddy apartment.

And upon return, he released all his dread and disinterest into the toilet bowl, leaving his throat and mouth burning with stomach acids. The only thing he'd consumed was hate and the cancer of his cigarettes.

He had work tomorrow, right? The idea of stocking shelves did not sound pleasant, as he heaved the rest of his guts out into the toilet.

* * *

**Four months later, within the confinements of a hospital room**

Rhythmic beeping lulled Arthur into a drowsy, incoherent state. Maybe it had to do with the pills from earlier. Either way, staring at the perfectly white wall across from him was not very entertaining. So, he sought out to move.

The first step was his hands. Curling his fingers inwards seemed a lot more difficult than it had sounded. They were stiff and cold. The..thingy clamped onto his forefinger didn't really help. Arthur vaguely remembered the nurse telling him it was called a pulse oximeter, when he first went to a hospital years ago.

When his bony fingers were clenched into light fists, he rolled his wrists drowsily, feeling the IV cord tug lightly. That wasn't pleasant. Next, his face. His lips felt dry and heavy, like lead. Sticking his tongue out to run it over them was gross, he could feel his chapped bottom lip on the bottom of his tongue.

He let his eyelids fall, but it took some effort to lift them again. He could furrow his brows easy enough – he did it enough as practice daily. His feet and legs were a whole different matter, he couldn't even feel them. Were they asleep? His concerns were lashed away when the door was suddenly opened him, his dull eyes moving to it.

Squinting weakly, he was barely surprised to find it was his ex. The large man quietly shut the door behind himself, his face blank as he approached the bedside, next to the beeping and confusing monitors, before he took his seat in the chair next to the bed that Arthur hadn't previously noticed. Arthur didn't bother to talk. Not that he could, probably. Instead, he stared into Ivan's light blue irises.

"You're awake.", was all that Ivan began with, his hands resting in his lap. Arthur made a weak noise in the back of his throat after a moment, and opened his lips. He swallowed a few times, and attempted to speak.

"Yuh..", he began with in a raspy voice, and then cleared his throat, which was not a good idea. It felt like hundreds of daggers were dragging down his throat. "Y-Yes..people tend to..be after sleeping.", he whispered, not wanting to stress his larynx anymore than he had to.

"And yet, people don't tend to sleep for over two weeks.", Ivan replied with ease, sitting back in his seat and crossing his legs. Arthur gave a wry smirk, and coughed, his torso bucking lightly. "Be a lad and brief me on what's...happened now, yeah?", he murmured and averted his gaze to the top of his arms resting on the rough blankets. Lines went up the skin like tally marks written on the walls of a prison.

"The usual. Overdose on prescription sleeping pills, malnutrition, loss of blood."

Arthur turned his head away to the window on the west wall, staring out into the dark sky with a smile on his lips. "How boring, right? I get lazy sometimes.", he said in his sandpaper voice, before glancing at the other. A look of disgust was evident on the healthier person's face. "At least you even woke up.", Ivan replied with, wringing his hands lightly.

With his face going blank, Arthur stared at him. After a minute, he murmured, "Waking up is one of my nightmares. Dreams are much more entertaining, whether they're terrifying or not, don't you agree?" Ivan rolled his eyes.

"Enough, Arthur. May we speak like adults, now?", he sighed, and rubbed his tired eyes. Arthur grinned weakly again, "If I'm not mistaken, neither of us are acting childish." Ivan disregarded his smart ass remark, and shifted closer.

"Why are you doing this?", he ground out, staring deeply into Arthur's blank eyes. Arthur's grin died down to a frown. He sighed and looked with boredom at the other, "Why bother asking the question, you know it'll just result in a dissatisfying answer."

"Nonetheless."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur shifted under the covers, and then sighed in exasperation, all to use to this lecture. Looking the other man straight in the eye, he said, "Life is boring and meaningless, why try to find hope or meaning when there is none? I will not try to find happiness from another human being. It's pointless, all humans are the same. Destructive. _Why _I'm doing this you ask? Punishing myself? Destroying my body?"

Ivan's face was set to a stone-like appearance, and it only amused Arthur. He took a moment to smirk at him.

"I like to see people close to me feel pain because of my actions. It convinces me they actually bother to care about me. And for this, I punish myself further.", he finished with his voice soft, his smirk softening to a forced smile. Ivan stared at him with furrowed eyebrows, his platinum hair shielding the creases of his skin between them.

Clearing his throat a bit, Ivan then swallowed the rock down in his throat. Even if he had left Arthur for these things, he still cared for him, of course. And hearing these things coming from this man he's known since elementary school, to say the least, was not pleasant. Averting his eyes to the heart monitor that was softly beeping, he frowned, his hands fidgeting a little in his lap. "Maybe..", he began in a murmur, "It would be best if you were to be sent to an infirmary. To stop this foolishness."

Arthur scowled. "No.", he ground out. Ivan pursed his lips, and shrugged. Then he reached out to place his warm hand over Arthur's cold, frail fingers. Arthur almost twitched. Ivan attempted a smile, before he stood and lifted his hand from Arthur's.

It was a thing he was used to seeing, really, the back of someone walking out the door. He stared until the door met his gaze again, and he deflated into the pillow. Sighing, he scratched at his thighs as some sort of minimal punishment for hurting Ivan. He wonders when God will stop punishing him by granting him life.


End file.
